


Silk and Champagne

by threewalls



Category: Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Bestiality, Community: bloodyvalentine, Community: kink_bingo, Decadence, F/M, Furry, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:18:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The Lord of this castle is the Beast, and she is his wanton. His rule is law and her whims amuse him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silk and Champagne

**Author's Note:**

> This is not based on any particular version of "Beauty and the Beast." The dishes are definitely not talking to anyone in this 'verse. 
> 
> Written for "orgies/decadence" for kink bingo and "bestiality" for Bloody Bingo.

The long table is set once more, creamy brocade tablecloths falling in heavy folds over mahogany, silver service and the gold rimming the bone china glinting in the glow of the thousand candle weighted chandelier overhead.

Beauty can almost remember when they would sit down before such a feast, the Beast her warden, Beauty his prisoner. He still wore a jacket then, unbuttoned over the long tangled fur of his pelt. Beauty still wore small clothes then, still thought of modesty, still thought of the eyes of the neighbours she had left behind and shivered, eyes downcast, as the castle's invisible servants laced her into dresses more sumptuous than her station had allowed.

Now there is only now. Now, Beauty does not know how many yards were consumed by the dress she wears. She only knows that it is silk, warming to her body and whispering as she runs. The Lord of this castle is the Beast, and she is his wanton. His rule is law and her whims amuse him.

The diamonds in the heels of her shoes sparkle in the light above. It is a dance, and she cannot outrun him. He can cross half the length of the table in a single bound. But the running brings colour to her cheeks, her bosom pressing against the confines of her corset. Beauty feels light-headed, effervescent, like the sweet, sweet champagne whose colour names the hue of her dress. 

The dishes clatter when she backs into the dining table-- she is caught!-- the hand outstretched to steady herself falling into something soft and creamy-- and sweet, Beauty finds, after raising her hand to her lips, tongue licking a stripe of cream from the line of her own wrist.

The Beast pauses, head cocked, watching her, and her own tongue cannot satisfy.

Beauty wipes her hand, the cream-sodden lace cuff, across the full rise of her bosom. The cream quickly melts into trickles from the heat of her flesh. 

The Beast roars, leaping, one huge paw crashing plates and tureens and cutlery to the floor. Beauty will be the dish tonight, as on other nights, bent backwards over the table under his inexorable weight.

Her Beast has fangs but he does not hurt her. He licks, oh, he licks, the soft press of teeth as hard as the ivory boning her ribs, rough tongue chasing cream deeper than her décolletage, teasing the nipples her bodice barely conceals. Her legs are water and her arms are wound about his enormous neck. Her hands do not meet, nor do her ankles.

Her shoes tinkle on the dining room tiles as they fall from her flexing feet.

The Beast whines when the cream is gone, gone from her body, gone from the table. Beauty is still gasping, still melting, when there is a pop-- champagne soaks through her dress. Paws, claws on her, Beast tears through her dress as though it were thinnest muslin, baring Beauty to the corset even before the bottle is empty - the bottles are emptied over her, green glass glowing above her before shattering out of sight, the bubbles chilling her bared skin.

When she opens her mouth, her throat tickles cold until the wine blooms warm through her chest. Beauty's head feels so heavy on her shoulders and she feels so warm at the place where the Beast's body splits her thighs.

Beast laps up the wine over her arched neck, her gasping breasts and the seam between her legs where she is sweet and wet with more than wine. Beauty's legs press against the unyielding bulk of his head, her pleasure rising. Her cries are loud and exultant and entirely beyond language. The ruins of her dress are soft against her back, bunching as she writhes under the rough caresses of his sandpaper tongue.

She thinks of the invisible servants that surround them. The invisible hands that sewed seed pearls and lace to her many dresses and laid a banquet fit for two hundred for a party that was only two-- invisible hands could surely stroke invisible cocks, invisible breasts, and all the other parts belonging to people. 

Are they longing, ranks upon ranks of servants dutifully awaiting their master's call? Or do they touch one another? Do they caress with the same urgency, with the passion and need? Or do they wish it were so as they watch their master have his wanton amidst the table so sumptuously prepared? 

Only now is their master distracted by her cries, her writhes, her hands fisted in his fur and her feet drumming upon his back. Do they take their pleasure all around them, an intricacy of invisible bodies known only to each other's touch?

Beauty comes with a cacophony of dishes hitting the floor, splashes, metal chiming, china shattering. She comes twice more because her body has taught the Beast how to please her and he is merciless in providing for all that she might wish solely within these walls. Such a sweet prison it is, that she might forget herself and learn to love him.

Beauty rolls onto her belly over the ruined bundle of the dress. She reaches between her spread thighs for him and guides the Beast to mount.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also comment/subscribe @ [my LJ](http://threewalls.livejournal.com/370194.html) or [my DW](http://threewalls.dreamwidth.org/244504.html).


End file.
